I Wish I Had Your Pot-bellied Stoicism

If only I had that, I would freeze the ship and clog it with icebergs so huge that you won't have anything left but to roam with the albatross. I swear, all your mysticism would transpire that told me you have one rib lesser. And, I would layer your river of paradise with my hell fire. For once believe me, it's so oily that the entirety of time track is given up. You don't move because you never move. Don't do that. I would let my children weep till they die of hunger. If they call out my name, I would tell them I have got this chronic dementia which makes me smell of ether everytime they echo. My breasts would milk and I wish I could curdle it so that they upset their stomach and die with fits, only fits. Look, I don't want my pretty dress to look sticky but in case it fumes up my sex appeal I would go for it. Once and for all. 

I am short of metaphors but not dead metaphors. But, I prefer to be laid back and not fit them. Or, that would be like putting up Cinderella gown on a scarecrow. Sometimes I actually am convinced that you would like it. You would like what I am not. If I am what I am not, would there be anything to like?

But, do as I might, the world is never on my side. Oozing wounds cause this certain kind of itch all over that you almost stop the flow. Mend it. Bandaid it. 

How do you even walk, so heavy? I don't care to reason, for who am I? The one who can't even decide if walking is an art? I am so fallible to tell you that I am not even sure if it is this "I".